


I Wanted You and I'm Cold, Cold, Cold

by primreceded



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-21
Updated: 2010-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:19:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primreceded/pseuds/primreceded





	I Wanted You and I'm Cold, Cold, Cold

**Title:** I Wanted You and I'm Cold, Cold, Cold  
 **Rating:** nc17  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Disclaimer:** All characters, recognizable settings and or themes belong to Eric Kripke, the CW, and others. Title from Elton John's "Cold". I am in no way earning money or other profit from this fanfic.  
 **Char/Pair:** Dean/Sam  
 **Prompt:** @[](http://www.insanejournal.com/users/spnpromptcake/profile)[](http://www.insanejournal.com/users/spnpromptcake/) **spnpromptcake**  
 **Spoilers:** None  
 **Warnings:** Underage (Sam around 16/17), wincest, language  
 **W/C:** 1,022  
 **A/N:** Rusty, I apologize. Unbeta'd, mistakes are mine.

Dean’s squinting out of the diner window when Sam comes up behind him and shoves his hands into the pockets of Dean‘s leather jacket. The snow is piled high outside, the sun shining brightly on it and making Dean’s head hurt. It’s not like he can look away though, trapped in a damn diner with wall to wall windows as they are. And anyway, he wants to keep an eye out for Dad.

“It’s freezing, Dean,” Sam says, voice muffled where it’s pressed between Dean’s shoulder blades, but Dean can still detect the whine. “Don’t you have matches or something?”

“What do you want to do Sammy, set the place on fire? Dad’ll be back soon, suck it up.”

Dean knows it’s the wrong thing to say before the words even leave his mouth but he says them anyway. Sam pushes off of him and Dean stumbles forward a little, glares at Sam’s back as he huffs off to sit in a corner booth at the back of the diner. And shit, Dean’s cold too. It’s got to be close to the teens inside, and every time he exhales his breath comes out in a white cloud but _what is he supposed to do?_. They’re trapped there until their father gets back, poltergeist keeping doors and windows from being opened and he can’t exactly torch the place. They’d be warm for a little while, sure. While they cooked themselves to death.

Dean groans, swipes a hand over his face before stomping after his brother. Sam’s already wearing four layers, one of which happens to be Dean’s favorite Henley, but he peels off his jacket, slides in next to Sam and wraps it around both their shoulders. It’s a tight fit, but Sam’s still skinny enough that when Dean squeezes him close they make it work.

“Sorry for being a dick,” he says, rubbing his hand up and down Sam’s arm to create some heat between them.

“S’okay, I’m used to it.”

Sam squawks when Dean pokes him in the rib, laughter muted in the crook of Dean’s neck when he presses his face there. His breath is moist and warm and Dean tugs him closer, let’s Sam mouth at his skin while he keeps an eye out for black and chrome.

“Dad’ll be back soon,” he says again. Hopes. The ground is probably frozen solid beneath all that snow and while their father might be John Winchester, he’s still only one man. He’s not invincible, despite what Dean thinks sometimes and as Sam always reminds him. He can only do so much. Still though, Dean‘s sure his father is going as fast as he can, knowing his sons are stuck here. As soon as he torches the corpse the doors will open and they can get the hell out into the fresh air.

Sam’s mouth has made its way to Dean’s jaw, and Dean tucks a finger under his brother’s chin, tilts Sam’s face until he’s able to slot their mouths together in a sloppy, lopsided kiss. It's a good way to generate some heat, Dean thinks, and it's not like it's a hardship, kissing Sam. His brother is still a little inexperienced and sometimes his sloppy go at it makes Dean feel guilty, makes him want to shove Sam off and onto a girl. But he knows the hurt look that will be in his brother's eyes, the jealous feeling that will curl in the pit of his own belly watching Sammy with some chick, or worse, another guy. And it's actually the tinge of green in his vision that has him pulling his brother back in every time, instead of the low feeling of wrong he sometimes gets. He knows that says a lot about him, but so does as lot of things in his life.

Sam grunts, shifts forward trying to get into Dean's lap but there's no room between the booth bench and the table. Dean shoves it out of the way and hauls Sam up and over by the front of his shirt, Dean's jacket falling from around his brother's shoulder. Sam pants, trails of white billowing from between his parted, swollen lips. Dean grins before pulling his brother down to meet his own mouth, sets the pace for them with his tongue.

When Sam starts to get handsy Dean lets him for a moment until Sam starts tugging the buttons open on Dean’s flannel, then Dean grabs his brother by the wrists, pulls Sam's hands away. Sam whines low in his throat and Dean's answering chuckle earns him a bite to his lip. With Sam's hands planted firmly at his sides Dean reaches for the zipper on Sam's fly, tugs it down and Sam hisses in a breath when the cold air hits his skin. And Dean's hands aren't much better, but they're a little warmer than the freezing cold air and when he wraps his fingers around Sam, little brother groans, arches into the touch. With his head thrown back, neck exposed and eyes closed Dean doesn't think he'll ever get tired of the sight.

The noises he makes go straight to Dean's own cock where it sits heavy in his jeans, pressing into the zipper. Every little grunt and mewl is like a hardwire to Dean's crotch, are probably the hottest thing he's ever heard, and when Sam finally spills onto Dean's hand, his own stomach, Dean follows suit, untouched. They both fall into each other, breathing hard and flushed, Sam smiling against Dean's neck. After a moment Dean pushes Sam off, grabs some napkins from the dispenser on the table and cleans up his hand, bats half-assedly at the mess in his pants.

"Are you warm now?" Dean asks.

Sam grins up at him where he's slouched in the bench, clothes still disheveled, and nods. "Yeah," he replies. "Kinda hungry though."

Dean huffs a laugh, slaps Sam hard on the patch of stomach exposed from his rucked up shirt and Sam grunts, sits up rubbing his belly. Dean hauls him in for another kiss before getting up to get them both some pie.


End file.
